By Way of Meduseld
by Equilly
Summary: The story of the queen who was once a child. Complete. - LothírielÉomer-


A/N: This story comes out of an attempt at a larger story, but I decided to condense it instead into this, whatever this happens to be.

Some notes on chess in this story: I've chosen to call the bishop a fool as he is called in French (_fou_) or a bearer, as in standard-bearer, from German (_laufer_). As for the rook, the word comes from Persian (_rukh_, meaning chariot) and technically the word "castle" is incorrect, so I have used ship, which is the Russian term for a rook (_ladya_), or, in Gríma's case, a tower, since there were few ships in Rohan (from Italian _torre_, German _turm_). The use of fool as opposed to bearer or ship versus tower is deliberate.

All of the stories concerning chess that the characters tell are drawn from real history or myth.

Please let me know what you think!

Disclaimer: I am not J.R.R Tolkien, and I do not own any of his canon characters. Rated T for a bit (a pinch, really) of bad language at the end, and maybe some not-so-nice implications, depending on how you look at it.

* * *

><p>By Way of Meduseld<p>

[the queen who once was a child, in six parts]

by equilly

* * *

><p>"Pawns are the soul of chess."<p>

- Andre Philidor

.

"[It] is much safer to be feared than loved when, of the two, either must be dispensed with. Because this is to be asserted in general of men, that they are ungrateful, fickle, false, cowardly, covetous, and as long as you succeed they are yours entirely; they will offer you their blood, property, life and children, as is said above, when the need is far distant; but when it approaches they turn against you."

-Niccolo Machiavelli, _The Prince_

.

"We have lingered in the chambers of the sea

By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown

Till human voices wake us, and we drown."

- T.S. Eliot,"The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock"

* * *

><p>I.<p>

She had the impression of windswept plains and a large, cavernous hall when she was ushered into Meduseld, but all else seemed to her a blur: she was, after all, barely more than a girl, caught in a strange land where she knew no one except the pale-faced man who stood on the dais.

"Princess Lothíriel," said the warden, and the king raised aged eyes to her, then dropped them. Though she was to become his daughter, she did not merit more than that brief examination. The woman standing at his shoulder was cold as ice and straight as a spear and Lothíriel felt as though her very soul was being scrutinized and found lacking, for then the woman looked away with contempt.

But the king's advisor, Gríma he was called, rose to welcome her, and though his face was white and his palms clammy she could not help but grasp his outstretched hands with some relief, for here was her one friend in all of Rohan.

"Your Highness," he said. "I trust your journey was pleasant?"

Neither the king nor the lady who stood at his shoulder could be bothered to so much as welcome her and so he took her to sit, raising a hand for a servant who brought her bread and wine.

"It was, thank you, Lord Gríma," she replied as politely as she knew, though in fact her journey had been arduous and unpleasant. "You are too kind."

"Nonsense," he said. "No kindness is too extravagant for the lady who will become our queen."

Cold prickled along her spine, for Lothíriel was still young and the thought of becoming the queen of this strange land was bitterly terrifying, even as it mingled with restless anticipation. She lowered her eyes.

"I see I have frightened you," he said and his voice was like honey. Of course she could trust him. He was to be her friend. "Do not think on the future, then, but on the moment." He pressed her hand and left her to her meal in peace.

In those first few weeks Lord Gríma was her only friend in all of Edoras and she thought back to the time when she had first met him in Minas Tirith, come to consult with her uncle on the matter of her marriage.

He had been greasy-haired and pale-faced with hands that seemed unable to keep still; he bowed low to her uncle the Steward while she listened from behind the carved screens.

"I come with the greetings of my king," he had said, and after much bowing and greetings and flattery they sat down together over goblets of wine and platters of goose so perfectly cooked that the center blushed crimson.

Her uncle knew she was there, though he had never openly acknowledged her, but they understood each other well, for they were alike in many ways: proud, fiercely clever, and ambitious, and he knew she would be listening just as she knew he was aware of presence. It was this understanding that led her to spend every autumn and winter at the Citadel with him, but the first year she had gone to stay with him, she had been anxious, for she had much in common with her cousin Faramir and Denethor had very little love for his second son, but she soon learned that what is objectionable in a man may be accepted and even admired in a girl. In Faramir a love of history and literature was detestable, but that quality in her endeared her all the more to her uncle and she found him a man of many layers, a patient man who taught her to play chess and hinted that she might watch the business of the hall from behind the carved screens where none could see her.

That night she watched him dine with this strange man from Rohan and she saw in her uncle's proud face barely concealed disdain, but he listened as the lord Gríma spoke.

"We are in need of a guarantee of your friendship, milord Steward," the man said. "My king wishes all goodwill between us, but recent events distress us much and we fear we cannot trust to unspoken agreement."

They talked for long hours and Lothíriel began to tire, but finally they bid each other farewell and she went to meet her uncle. He raised his brows and offered her his arm.

"Come with me," he said, and they went to his chambers where a servant brought her tea- even a glass of wine made her light-headed- and he indicated that she might sit down before the chessboard.

When she had first come she had lost to him every time, and badly. Now she still lost, but perhaps not so badly.

"Rohan wishes a hostage," said her uncle.

"Me." She set her fingers on her pawn- she was white, as usual- and moved him forward two squares.

"No," he said. "A hostage."

"A pawn."

"Just so."

It was their standard opening; much of the game was formulaic, as much an examination of the opponent's face as the board, as though they tested the other's mettle. Each time she fought hard to win and each time she lost, but she had yet to surrender.

"Why do they want a pawn?" She examined a knight.

"There is always a use for a pawn," he said.

She knew it to be so; the first lesson she had learned was that no piece was to be squandered, that each pawn had infinite value. Trite though it might have been, a pawn could don the crown of a queen.

"What will my lord uncle do?"

"You are to go to Rohan," he said. "Come Midwinter you will leave."

She felt as though the breath had been knocked out of her lungs. "_What?_"

Still his face remained as though carved from granite: proud and inscrutable, and he did not reply.

"But-," she began, but knew he would brook no disagreement. "Why?"

He did not reply and neatly swept her queen off the table.

It was a bitterly fought game that night, Lothíriel struggling with anger and puzzlement and hurt as she sent her knights after his castles and lords, picking them off one by one as he took hers; her lord for his knight, his queen for her castle, her castle for his pawn, and she watched herself lose all her reinforcements with the impression that he was playing her, that he had a plan.

And then she saw it, her king retreating to the back to stop the first of his remaining two pawns from queening itself: checkmate, two pawns and a king.

Her uncle smiled.

"Game to black."

.

And so she had returned to Dol Amroth bearing a message to her father.

His face had crumpled, though outwardly it remained calm.

"Thiri," he said. "Is this what you want?"

And she was quiet because she could not tell her kind, good father that she held close to her the promise of the pawn who could become a queen.

II.

On the second day of her stay in Edoras; a servant brought her a message from Lord Grima, telling her that he had been bidden to bring her to the king's counselor, and Lothíriel had readily acceded.

Lord Gríma's chambers were lavish, more ornate than hers, and the warmth of the fire seemed to reach her very bones. He ushered her in with a deep bow and she took in the rich tapestries on the walls, the thick rugs on the floor, the exquisitely carved statues of rearing horses and eagles about the room.

"Please, sit," he said.

She took the offered mulled cider and sipped at it cautiously, for it would not do to become drunk and humiliate herself. Though Lord Gríma was kind, she doubted even he would be pleased at a foreign princess who drunk herself silly on her second day in Edoras.

"It takes extraordinary courage to journey so far from your home," he said.

Lothíriel lowered her eyes. "You are kind," she murmured, flattered, for few men remarked on her bravery, though she fancied herself at least somewhat courageous.

"I am not kind," said Lord Gríma and his voice was bitter. "At least, the Marshals would have it not so."

"What do you mean?"

Her voice must have betrayed her concern, for he summoned a smile to his pale face. "Forgive me, Your Highness. I did not mean to worry you."

She raised her cider to her mouth but did not drink any; she did not wish to offend his hospitality. "Please… would you tell me of the Prince? I know very little of him."

"Ah, well," said Gríma, spreading his hands, "perhaps I am not the man to tell you of him, Highness, for he likes me little."

"No one else will tell me anything," she said. "The king is unwell and the lady Éowyn does not care for me."

"Ah, Éowyn!" he said. "You must forgive her, for she is very lonely; her brother has left her behind, preferring to ride with his éored than remain at home with his sister."

"How terrible," she said. "I do not think I will like the Marshal very much."

"So you say," replied Lord Gríma. "But the Marshal has a certain… charm and most women find themselves… liking him… despite their better intentions."

"Oh, well," she said, "I flatter myself that I am not most women."

"Indeed you are not," said Lord Gríma, bestowing upon her a tiny smile.

"The Prince," she prompted.

"Indeed," he said. "A good man, though perhaps not nearly as clever as Your Highness. He is… suspicious by nature and jealous; he resents the king's love for me, but I am certain it stems from his devotion to his father."

"He is the Second Marshal of the Mark?"

"Aye," said the lord Gríma, and then quickly, "That is, yes, he is indeed the Second Marshal of the Mark, and a great warrior; his men boast that he can kill an Orc with only his bare hands."

Against her will Lothíriel found her eyes drawn to her own hands, very small and pale and soft as they rested in her lap.

"Forgive me, Your Highness. Have I distressed you?"

"No," she said, but she realized her hands had begun to tremble. To think that she would marry such a man! "I just-,"

"Do not worry," said the lord Gríma as a father might, "you will always have a friend in me."

"Thank you," she said, humbled. "You are very kind."

"Do you play chess?" he asked.

She felt a smile dawn on her face. "Yes," she said, "yes, I do."

"Then we will play a game, shall we not?" He picked up a small silver bell that rested beside him and rang it.

It was some long moments later when a servant finally came and brought the chess set from the inner chambers; it was handsome board, made of smoothly polished ebony and the white of something she did not recognize.

"What is this?" she asked, placing a queen in her hand and looking it very curiously.

"I haven't an idea," was the reply. "I did not purchase this set, you know."

"Oh." She set the queen down.

"White or black, milady?"

"White, please."

The history of chess was fascinating, but not nearly as fascinating as the actual strategy. Faramir had long studied its origin and loved to tell her of the myriad of myths that surrounded the game, but she preferred to play.

She studied the board.

A white pawn, out two: the Queen's Gambit, her favorite move.

Declined; he did not take her pawn, instead bring out another of his own to guard. Developing the knights, then her fool sailed out to stare down his knight.

He brought out his second knight.

The fire crackled but she did not notice.

She swept his knight off his board.

She attacked aggressively and he reeled from the onslaught, barely holding his own; she took one of his ships and the other of his knights while he took her fool. Lothíriel had never hesitated to lose pieces, a strategy she had learned from her uncle; Faramir preferred to play defensively, laying traps for his opponent.

She had played her father once; he had once been good but played very little, and she had attacked immediately and won, trading and exchanging pieces, sacrificing even her queen.

_Ruthless_, he had said, and though he smiled, there had been an edge to his voice that she still did not understand.

She developed her queen and only once she had let go did she see that his fool stood poised to take her; she held her breath and looked down at her hands.

But he did not see it; perhaps he was not as clever as she and then she swept her ship across the board and only too late did he see her strategy, moving his knight to guard his otherwise undefended king, but she took him easily.

"Check and mate," she said.

"So it is, Your Highness."

"You could have had me," she added, though with some chagrin.

Lord Gríma looked at the board intently. "My standard-bearer," he said.

"In Gondor we call him the fool," she said.

"Well played," he replied, offering her his hand. "You are much cleverer than I."

"It is the queen," she said, "am I not one, too?"

III.

When she was just a child, Elphir had taught her to make boats out of folded parchment. Her fingers had had a six-year-old's clumsiness but she practiced it with her usual determination until she had made herself an entire fleet that was promptly swamped by an ill-timed wave, and she had watched with dismay as her sopping little boats were dragged out to sea.

_Perhaps_, her father had said very gently, for though she had not cried- Lothíriel did not cry- he could see the hurt in her face, _we might find a better place to start your navy._

Some months later, he took her to Minas Tirith and there she built herself an entire fleet of parchment boats, a little trailing line of white specks along the Anduin. Her brothers had remained behind in Dol Amroth and she told her father that they would see her boats and know she had sent them. The waters of Middle-earth were one; they ran together, pooled in the sea, rushed along the Anduin, but they would eventually find each other.

Water was precious to her, to all of her family. Her aunt had withered without the sea and her brother Elphir was the captain of Dol Amroth's navy; pompous and arrogant he might be on land, but at sea he was truly at home. Even Erchirion, who was violently ill every time he so much as looked at a boat, loved to swim, while Amrothos and Lothíriel as children had gone to the beach every day to swim and look for seashells. She remembered the wet sand between her toes, the gulls overhead, the freezing water about her ankles, the shout of triumph when they found a shell. Unbroken shells were a rare treasure but once Amrothos had found one that sang of the sea when she held it to her ear.

She loved rivers just as much as she loved the ocean and perhaps it was because they were so completely opposite her own nature. Rivers were unambitious, without pride, without trappings or even intelligence or a mind and yet so beautiful and perfect and unspoiled- they had none of her strengths, none of her cunning, and yet they were so much more than she would ever be.

The waters of the world ran deep in her blood.

The river Snowbourn ran swift and cool, and Lothíriel was not fool enough to venture into the depths, but the edges were shallow, little wavelets of water lapping at the shore, and so she sat on the frozen ground and removed her heavy boots and woolen stockings, hiking her long dress about her knees. She had long ago put aside her finer garments- silks and velvets that had been all the rage in Minas Tirith- for plain, simple dresses that were narrower than her old gowns, and she wore no petticoats. Gone too were her embroidered slippers, for they did not keep out the chill. She thought that her brothers would not recognize her anymore.

"Ouch," she hissed, for the ground was cold, but carefully, cautiously, one hand holding up her skirt, she ventured into the river. The water was icy and bitter, so cold that she gasped, but it felt so good, it was _water_, and she thought that it might go to her brothers, that if she closed her eyes and plunged in, she might find herself in the Bay of Belfalas where the sun was warm and the dolphins swam just beyond the coves. She thought of the sun-warmed sand, the taste of the salt, the laughter of the children.

She ventured in just a little deeper. She wouldn't go in much further, not really-

And then she slipped and the next thing she knew was pure, unadulterated fear, she was fighting the current, but it was strong and she was screaming and she couldn't breathe and then-

_i'm not ready not yet please no don't let me go_

_if i go take me home_

_please i want to see you one last time_

and then there was darkness and panic until, as if through a half-dazed dream, hands had seized hers and she felt firm hand ground, and then she was coughing and someone was shouting for the guards and a hand was on her back, steadying, and for a few moments she was a child and she knew absolute trust, and that was when she began to fall in love.

.

When she woke, they told her that she had nearly drowned, that they had feared her lifeless until she began to cough, spewing all the water from her lungs, and so now she sat by the fire, the maid hovering about uselessly as if she feared Lothíriel might shatter into a thousand pieces.

"I am fine," she said, but her voice was as harsh as a raven's caw. "I do not drown easily."

Seledrith was young, barely fourteen years old, and for all her quick deft fingers she was more a child than a woman; she had the unfortunate tendency to say whatever happened to come to mind, but Lothíriel could not take offense, or at least not for long, so earnest were the girl's wide blue eyes.

"No, my lady, I suppose not," she said, her voice layered with pure doubt, "but I was so frightened when the guards brought you up, I thought you were dead, all pale and stiff and I thought how terrible it would be, the wedding, well, I suppose there will not be a wedding for a while, but _still_-,"

The fire flickered; it was autumn and the days were growing inexorably colder, the air brittle and chilled with the dry, brittle promise of the coming winter. In the room she had been given it was very cold and very stark, as though she were still a guest: the only furnishing was the bed, and so she sat before the hearth on the cold stone floor. No, she did not like Meduseld, for all that she had been so resolute and ready to leave Gondor just months before.

"Perhaps you might go to bed," said Seledrith.

"I am not tired."

"You _must _be tired. Such an exhausting day you have had, my lady; you will wear yourself out if you-,"

"Seledrith," said Lothíriel and her voice was as chill as the frost that settled upon the long grass and the sparse leaves left on the trees, "leave me. I do not wish to go to bed."

"Oh," said Seledrith, faltering, but Lothíriel did not give way; she had very little patience for foolishness- or fools. "Oh, well. Then I suppose I shall-,"

Someone knocked.

Lothíriel drew the quilt about her shoulders more tightly. "Who is it?"

Seledrith went to open it. "My lord Marshal!"

_Marshal_.

Her stomach tightened and she rose, raising her chin with the pride worthy of the Steward himself.

She knew they had arrived, of course; that was the reason why she had fled Meduseld. After all, the man was a warmongering drunkard who wanted nothing more than to supplant his uncle, and she had not wished to meet him- in fact, did not wish to meet him all, at any time, today or some other day, given what she had heard of his reputation.

She was not surprised to see that he was handsome- a straight nose, heavy brows, dark eyes- but she was surprised to see the intelligence in his gaze and even more surprised by the gentleness with which he took the hand she did not remember offering to him.

"Your Highness. You look much better than you did when last I saw you."

"Oh?" She withdrew her hand and looked at him very coolly.

"The Marshal pulled you out!" said Seledrith very eagerly. "Even though you were _dead_. Well, not quite, I suppose, but it was not terribly smart of you to go swimming-,"

"I was not swimming," she said. "I lost my balance and fell." Her head throbbed as if in memory of the current, the rocks, struggling to find a handhold.

"I have done it before," he said. "When I was just a boy. And when you drown, it is silent. You can make no noise."

She thought of the gasping, struggling moments before her head slammed into the rocks, the panic, groping for the surface, fighting the current, and bit her lip.

"I am sorry!" he said and when she raised her eyes to his face she saw only concern, perhaps even true kindness. "I had wanted to meet my new cousin, but I did not think we would meet so soon…"

"Nor I," she said and then recalled that she did not want to like this man. "Good night, my lord Marshal."

Lothíriel saw the frown flicker across his face, but he said, "Of course. Good night."

She had not wanted to like him; in fact, she had hated the man ever since she had heard of him, had decided then and there that she would be unflinchingly cold. It was a particular talent of hers, learned from her uncle, who had perfected the disdainful glare that conveyed absolute disgust and dislike all in a single glance, and it had never before failed her.

"I do not like to call men evil," Gríma had said, resting his fingers atop his queen. "But the Marshal is most surely so. An ambitious man, most certainly, willing to do whatever it takes to gain the throne. He would even turn on his own uncle and cousin, those who have sheltered him and loved him well, all for the sake of power."

To Lothíriel, loyalty was even more important than ambition; she well understood love of power, but not betrayal.

"Perhaps I will not like him," she had said.

"You are too generous by half, my lady," he said. "If I may be so bold, I would advise you to keep well away from the Marshal. He has a certain, ah, well, when it comes to the ladies of the court-,"

"I understand," this dropping her eyes, "and in any event, I am to be his queen."

.

III.

_Third Age October 3018_

Éomer found her on the steps overlooking Edoras and caught her by the elbow, eyes snapping with infectious goodwill. "Not daydreaming, are you?" he demanded.

"So what if I am?" she returned.

"Daydreaming of any sort is not permitted here," he said. "You will just have to talk to me while Théodred meets with the king."

"You are to go riding?"

"Yes," he said, "it has been _ages _since I last saw him- he has not been able to leave West-mark for, well, months."

"An eternity, to be sure," she said. "Perhaps if I am lucky, he may tear himself away for the wedding."

At that he laughed. "Well, if he does not, I will do it," and for a moment her stomach fluttered, but surely there was nothing than platonic affection in his eyes, for they were to be cousins and he loved Théodred like a brother.

"Then I certainly hope Théodred will come," she said drily, gathering her wits.

"I am wounded!"

"Not deeply enough, I fear."

"No, probably not." He was smiling down at her, eyes laughing, but there was sudden tenderness in his face, and she was not sure what to say, but then she heard the whisper of a cloak behind her and they both turned, Éomer's hand going once more to her arm in silent support.

There are many things I have learned, she wanted to say.

She is a girl:

_What is this_? Her fingers on a white queen, smoothing the cool strange piece.

_I haven't an idea. I didn't purchase this set, you know_.

It had been Éomer who told her: _carved from bones. Human bones. His idea of a joke._

"Worm," he said very coldly.

Gríma stood before them, his eyes glittering coldly. "Ah, the good Marshal," he said, bowing. "Quite a rant today at the council over that village-,"

"That _village _was razed to the ground," Éomer spit out from between clenched teeth, but still his grip on her arm was firm but not painful, as though he restrained himself.

"So like his father, you will find, Princess. He cannot always contain his temper, so do not-," He was turning to her, bowing, and she wondered how she had ever listened to him or believed him to be a friend. She wondered how she had ever sat by the fire with him and watched the light play over his cool face. Wondered how she had ever drunk his wine, ever let his words slide over like lullabies, wondered how she had not shied from the hand that he'd settled on her shoulder, the lines of her collarbones, the curve of her cheek, wondered how, even in the potion-induced daze, she hadn't seen him for what he was.

"Leave us, Worm," Éomer cut in, his voice like steel, eyes flashing much like Éowyn's, and Wormtongue did, for few dared to argue with Éomer and Wormtongue was only a coward, but his eyes lingered upon her even as he withdrew: cool, calculating, plotting.

Éomer's hand on her elbow lingered and she was glad for it, felt as though it rooted her to the ground, but she did not like Wormtongue's eyes and could not shake her disquiet.

"_Bastard_," he ground out, and he did not apologize for his language.

They were friends, of some sort; they had a kind of easy camaraderie- Éomer teasing, Lothíriel countering, and sometimes just remaining in silence together, and she was glad he did not feel the need to justify himself to her.

Still, she was curious.

"Why did he say that?" she asked.

His shoulders were tight and she saw the raw power in his lean, strong frame, power that she had not noticed, for his hands on hers had always been gentle. The wind across the grass was strong and cold and she flinched but did not turn away to the relative warmth of the hall. They stood together on the steps, peering down into the village, where smoke lazily curled up to the clear, cold sky.

"Everyone said as much when the king made me the Third Marshal," he said finally. "My father was a reckless - well, that is why he died. I swore I would not be the same." The words were short and clipped, as though it pained him to let them escape, but then he turned to face her and his eyes were very blue and serious.

She thought she understood, that he had lived for years in his father's shadow, constantly compared to his failures, his flaws, struggling every day to set himself apart.

For a moment they stood like that, breathlessly, intently, locked in some sort of silent understanding, beyond the laughter and the jests and even the wind and the cold, and then the hall doors banged open and out came Théodred, his dark hair blowing in the wind.

"Éomer," he said loudly, for he was a loud man, "Princess Lothíriel. What are-,"

It was Éomer who turned to greet his cousin, his customary grin sliding into place. "There you are! I thought you would never finish. Is he well?"

"Well as he can be." He shrugged, dismissing the matter, but something lingered in his eyes as they darted from his beloved younger cousin to Lothíriel, his betrothed. "Well?"

"Of course." Éomer dropped her arm, and then the two men went off together to the stables, gold and dark, and she watched them: Éomer's powerful, lithe frame next to his cousin's larger, heavier form.

She watched and thought that she was not so certain that she ought to be a queen.

IV.

_Third Age, February 3019_

Lothíriel wanted to cry but could not, knew she did not have the right. She had stood beside Éowyn when the messenger came and the woman turned even paler and even stonier, but she had not even flinched, though Lothíriel had reached for her arm in case she should faint.

The river was icily cold, full of last year's snowmelt from the White Mountains- Ered Nimrais, they were called in Gondor- and last spring she had nearly drowned, unprepared for the deep, swift current. It had been Éomer who had pulled her out, grasped her wrists and drawn her to safety.

Lothíriel did not cry easily; she was too proud for that. She drew off her heavy winter boots and then her stockings, setting them aside neatly, and then cautiously let the cold water eddy about her bare feet. It was low on its banks; most of the water in the Ered Nimrais was still frozen solid.

For a long time she did not move and the sun began to sink lower in the winter sky, bringing with it the bitter, biting chill of evening and an icy wind.

Then she heard hoofbeats; one of the guards from Meduseld, a hardened, scarred veteran called Leofric. He had never had much patience with the strange princess from Gondor, but he had been kind to her in his own gruff way.

"Your Highness," he said from behind her. "It is nearly dark."

"Yes, I know." Still she did not move, letting the water eddy about her feet.

Silence.

"My feet are numb, you know," she said. "If you stand here long enough, you cannot feel anything."

"Your Highness."

"I am coming." She turned and with some difficulty pulled her stockings over numbed, unresponsive feet and then laced her boots; Leofric did not move to steady her. He did not understand her, but then, very few people here in Rohan did. The Rohirrim were an exuberant people- they loved and laughed and wept to the extreme; most did not understand reserve and mistook it for stillness or unconcern. Only Éowyn understood, but that understanding did nothing to endear either woman to the other, perhaps because they were too similar.

Meduseld was barely warmed by the great fire on the hearth yet there remained a distinct chill. The king sat still and unmoving in his chair; he had been weak when Lothíriel had first arrived in Edoras nearly two years ago, but he had since decayed even further, resembling a walking corpse. His eyes were glassy, his hair and beard white with age, his face drawn and miserable, as though he already had one foot in the grave, and he did not touch the stew the squire Wulfric had put before him. When Lothíriel entered, Háma pushing open the doors for her, Wulfric looked up immediately, his small, miserable face blazing with relief.

"Princess," he said, bowing, and he brought her a steaming bowl of stew. She ate rather mechanically, for it was terrible. No doubt Wealthow the cook had been just as distraught as everyone else, for in the faces she saw around the hall hovered the same misery she had seen in Wulfric's. Prince Théodred had been dearly loved by most.

Rather, he had been loved by all, save Lothíriel herself, and of course Wormtongue. Something like guilt churned in her stomach and she lowered her eyes.

Bending closer, Wulfric whispered, "The lord Osfrid says he wishes to speak to you after dinner."

"Thank you," she murmured. Wulfric had been her first friend in Meduseld, fascinated rather than repulsed by her foreign coloring and accented Westron, but never had she seen him so sad, not even when the Marshal had told him he could not come to Aldburg with him as his squire, and Wulfric had been bitterly disappointed then, to the point of tears. Before Wulfric could withdraw, she asked, just as softly as he, "Has there been word of the Third Marshal?"

He nodded. "A messenger came from Aldburg to say that he went to chase the Orcs."

"What Orcs?"

"The ones he was not supposed to follow."

"Which ones were those?"

For all that he was barely eleven years old, Wulfric was frightfully ingenious and managed to overhear nearly every conversation that went on in Meduseld, but he was still just a boy and did not understand all that was said. He shrugged.

Someone cleared his throat and she looked up to see Gríma's eyes on them. The counselor sat robbed in black as was his wont, dark eyes glittering in his pale face. "Princess. How kind of you to join us. I wonder at you, leaving the king here alone in his grief. He is wounded at such _disloyalty_."

She would not justify herself to him, so instead she turned to the king, rising so she could bow more deeply to the man who could have been her father-in-law. "I apologize, Your Majesty. I was most distraught to hear of the prince's death and did not think to stay. I pray you will forgive me for my grief."

Théoden regarded her with rheumy eyes and she wondered if he understood. Then he muttered, "Daughter."

She looked helplessly at Éowyn. They were uneasy allies in this hall, but the woman did not look up from her clasped hands and Lothíriel saw that her eyes were dull, as though reeling from a great blow. How many blows could Éowyn stand? Strong though she was, she was too strong to bend and sometimes Lothíriel thought that she might shatter under the burdens she bore- and unending were those burdens, crushing enough to defeat the greatest of men.

She seated herself.

"Your Majesty," said Gríma in that honey-sweet voice of his, the same voice that had so beguiled Lothíriel when she had first arrived, "you are wearied. Let me take you to your chambers." And so saying he rose and took the king's arm. "Lady Éowyn, surely you will assist."

Éowyn rose, her eyes like steely grey daggers.

Silence.

The hall was empty but for the Lord Osfrid, come from the West-mark to bring tidings of a hard winter and the roaming bands of Uruk-hai pillaging and destroying all in their way, the soldier who had ridden hard to bring the fateful news of Théodred's death to Meduseld, the servants, and the handful of refugees who had come to Edoras over the winter.

They were all watching Lothíriel, even Wulfric and the door-warden and the handful of guards that hovered about the perimeter hall.

With great effort she raised her hand to Wulfric. "That will be all, I think. My lord Osfrid?"

The man rose, putting aside his bowl. Like Lothíriel and the king and Éowyn, he had barely touched his stew; only Gríma and the errand-rider, exhausted after his long, harrowing journey, had eaten with any real appetite.

Osfrid had been one of Théodred's closest friends and a loyal Rider, but nearly a year ago an Orc's blade had left him barely able to walk and so he limped heavily, leaning on a stark wooden cane for support. He was serious and shrewd; he once could have been a field commander but after his injury he had turned that exacting attention to the ruling of his fief. He did not like Lothíriel, had not liked her since she first came to Rohan, tired and lonely and arrogant, had thought her a poor wife and future queen for Théodred and all of Rohan, and so she was shocked when he said, once they had left the hall and emerged into the evening chill, "My condolences."

He had never addressed her as a princess and had always regarded her with suspicion; she in turn treated him with haughty indifference.

"Thank you," she replied, "but I think you and Rohan's people are in need of the condolences more than I."

He grunted. "Pretty words."

"Yes," she said, maintaining her composure, "but there is sentiment behind them."

Osfrid grunted again. He was a man of few words, choosing instead to watch and observe rather than speak, and, leaning more heavily on his cane, he indicated that they might walk farther beyond the houses and out of earshot. "We received tidings from the Third Marshal."

"Oh?" If he wished to see her start, he would need to work harder, for Lothíriel had learned to maintain perfect composure in her uncle's court and none were better at the art of dissembling than the Steward.

"He has gone to chase a band of Orcs come from Emyn Muil," said Osfrid. "Against the king's orders. That is north of here, along the Anduin."

She granted him a razor's edge of a smile. "Thank you, Lord Osfrid. I assume you have some reason for telling me so?"

"I have pledged my life to King Théoden," he said. "I swore to him fealty and service and though I did not swear to love him, I do, as do all of us who call ourselves Rohirrim."

There was a test in those words and she answered as best she could. "I cannot say I love the king as you, for I know only the shadow that remains in Meduseld."

"You did not love Théodred."

"As a king, I might have."

That was the truth, but it was not the answer he wanted, but she could not explain to him that she had hated Théodred, hated and feared him, both because she did not understand him and he did not understand her. They were too different, cast on either side of a gaping chasm, and he had scrabbled to find a handhold, some way to understand her, for Théodred had been a man who liked certainty, but Lothíriel was shaped of ambiguity- shades of grey when he preferred the stark contrast of black and white.

He studied her intently and then finally continued, "You speak truly, Your Highness, when you say he is only a shadow of himself. I loved the king he was, and I love him still, but he can no longer be our king." There was pain in his eyes and utter despair, for the Rohirrim did indeed love their king with all their hearts and yet here he stood, admitting that Théoden could offer no guidance, no comfort. "And the lady Éowyn- she has gone cold."

Yes, Lothíriel could see that; cold and uncaring, as though to feel would be to bring even more pain. And who could blame her? Even Lothíriel, proud as she was, had to admit that she could not have done better than Éowyn; she could not have borne the long lonely years watching her beloved uncle sink into darkness.

"For all that the Rohirrim are plainspoken," she said, "you speak in riddles, Lord Osfrid. What do you wish to tell me?"

"We have no leader," he said. "I do not know what will become of the Marshal when he returns, but Gríma will cause him to suffer for his disobedience."

"He has long wished suffering upon the Marshal," she said.

"And has often nearly succeeded."

She felt the blow as if he had struck her; she reeled, blanching.

He watched with some satisfaction, then continued, "You have a queen's disposition, my lady. You are cold, you are calculating, perhaps even ruthless."

She turned her eyes to the ground, drawing in a deep, steadying breath.

"Were it not for you, Théodred would still live."

"You lie," she hissed, turning on him. "You think _I _caused him to break? Perhaps you are just like he was, then, always twisting the truth and blinding yourself to the world!"

He made as if to protest and then his shoulders sagged.

"That is a luxury we none of us have," she said to him. "We can no longer afford to suit ourselves, to see only what we wish to see."

"These people," he said, his arm sweeping out to indicate the village. It was crude, rough, and sparse, the houses made of wood and thatch, but there was beauty in its austerity, in its determination for life. This land was a cruel, cold mistress: its winters brought death and bitterness, and they clung to life only through sheer will. That was true, unvarnished beauty; life at its basest but its truest.

"I understand," she said.

"It is not safe yet for you to return to Gondor. Until then, swear that you will defend these people- this realm- as you might have, were you to be queen of this land."

"I will not swear," she said, "not on your behalf, for a queen does not follow the orders of her vassals. But I say to you that I will protect these people as best I can and I will not leave them until the king that sits upon the throne of Meduseld sees with a clear eye."

She extended her hand and he took it, clasping it as he might a man's, and she knew why she did it, because she could have been a queen (should have been a queen).

V.

It was Wulfric who brought her the news, bursting breathlessly into her tent just after dawn, his blue eyes wide in his pale, freckled face. "She's gone!" he cried.

"Who is gone?" She fumbled for the crumpled woolen dress that she had dropped.

Wulfric was usually painfully correct, though his attempts at perfect courtesy often failed, and he was constantly in search of approval, though he received little; at twelve, he was too young to join the muster, and she had seen the pain in his face as the Riders left Dunharrow. He had no family left, save his older sister, and so he had set his sights upon becoming a Rider: his first words to her had been, "I'm Lord Éomer's squire, and someday I'm going to be a Marshal just like he is!" Now she saw none of his usual nervousness, none of his usual attempt at chivalry, only sheer panic that drained the color from his face.

"Who is gone, Wulfric?" she repeated.

"Lady Éowyn!"

"_What_?" She stopped, her hands frozen.

"I can't find her anywhere, she wasn't here for dinner last night, but we thought that she wanted to be alone, so I didn't- but this morning, she still isn't here, and her horse- Windfola- she's gone!"

"No," she said. "Éowyn could not have left."

"She's _gone_," he said again, as though that had narrowed to become his entire world.

"Wait," she said, twisting to lace the back of her dress. It was black, as were all her clothes- mourning dress.

Dunharrow was a dark, silent place, steep, and enclosed, bounded by rocks and mountains; a mist had descended upon the heath, veiling the world to them, and it was no wonder that all seemed still and unquiet. Wulfric led her to a pavilion that must have been Éowyn's.

"It is empty," he said. "See?"

A crowd had formed about the tent: the old men and the women and the children, all those left behind by the king, all that was left of Rohan, the people Éowyn had been charged to govern and protect in Théoden's absence.

Lothíriel hesitated.

She recognized these people: Merewenne, her face wearied but serene, hands resting on her belly where she bore the fifth of her children, though she was barely twenty-five; Seledrith, Wulfric's older sister, even more talkative and impulsive then he; old Unferth, the village leech, whose cure to everything was a good draught of mead. They watched her silently as if waiting for her to produce a miracle, as if she could bring their lady back to them.

Dark times were these indeed, and in such times they turned to the House of Eorl, their kings who had guided them since Rohan had been born out of Gondor, won for the Rohirrim by Eorl the Young, but now there were none left to guard them.

"Stay here," she ordered Wulfric, and ducking into the pavilion, she searched it, briefly and swiftly.

It was a grander pavilion than even she, a princess of Gondor and the would-be dowager princess of Rohan, had merited, spacious and hung with the tapestries. The bedroll was gone, as were the saddlebags. Lothíriel held onto a sliver of hope- perhaps they had merely been lost, or perhaps Éowyn had given them to someone in need-

The sword.

Frantically Lothíriel looked about for the lady's sword. If she had gone, she would have taken her sword. If the sword were here, there was no cause for concern. It had to be here. Éowyn would not have left them; she couldn't have left them.

But yet she was gone.

Lothíriel went very numb and chilled, her fingers frozen and knotted in the wool of her skirt. Then she gathered herself to step into the cold; she could taste the mist and the wind and the loneliness.

She did not like Éowyn much, for all could not help but see her, to worship her, and Lothíriel had envied her for that, and grudgingly Lothíriel had to admit that the lady had lightened the road to Dunharrow, gleaming like pale sunlight in her mail as she sat upon her horse, her voice raised above the wind. Quiet and cold she might have been, but they loved her, they looked to her for hope. She was all that was the House of Eorl: proud and stern and great, strong of arm and of spirit, unyielding, and unbending.

But to yield was to survive; to stand proud and unfaltering was to shatter.

"She has gone," she said, her voice falling into the stillness, and she saw the hope slip from their faces. They had clung so surely to the slim, dying whisper of a chance that perhaps it was a mistake, that Lothíriel might anchor their lady to them, but she could not.

But they did not move.

She looked from face to face.

The Rohirrim were a simple, crude people, without writing or even laws written in their native language; their houses were poor and rough. They were a lesser people sprung from a greater realm, or so the legends of Gondor went; they would always be small, scattered, and crude, but Lothíriel had begun to see something else. They were faithful and true, strong and loyal, unquestioning, unwavering in their devotion, dedicated so firmly to their love and their hope and their country.

When the storms came, they would rebuild.

But without Éowyn- she had been their strength, their hope.

She tried to speak, but could not move her lips.

Still they waited.

"Bring to me the captain of the men left here," she said. "Wulfric."

He bowed and ran.

Faint, faltering hope; she was dark-haired, pale, robed in forbidding black, a foreigner who spoke their tongue with a thick, crude accent, but there was still hope in their faces nonetheless. All their hopes had settled upon her shoulders.

Well, she once could have been their queen.

VI.

She spotted him from across a ballroom that was wreathed in light tinkling laughter and music, and she stood for some moments watching him before Amrothos swooped down upon her.

"You look absolutely ravishing," her brother told her, kissing her cheek. "Anyone special in mind?"

"I didn't know the king of Rohan was here."

"Ah." Her brother's eyes found Éomer. "So that's the reason for such a brown study."

"I do not wish to see him."

"All right. Look- there's Faramir."

"Lovely," she said with some relief. Their cousin was chatting with a lady of Anórien who regarded she and Amrothos with polite interest; Lothíriel had long since ceased to be a curio in the court, though at first her return to her father's home had been the source of much gossip. _Poor girl_, they had whispered, because Lothíriel had been not-quite a widow. After a few minutes of polite conversation, the lady left them, and Lothíriel smiled with some relief.

"You look thin," she said to Faramir.

He smiled tolerantly. "You look tired."

"I am. Dance with me?"

"What, and leave me?" demanded Amrothos.

"You've been eying Lady Merilael for the past hour," said Lothíriel. "Go talk to her."

He chuckled.

Faramir was an excellent dancer, Lothíriel not so much. They talked politics and family, dancing lightly about subjects that had been, by unspoken agreement, labeled taboo. Beyond the windows the evening lay spread dark against the sky, a haze of purples and crimson that were swiftly fading into night. The air was chill against her bare shoulders and when she shivered a little, Faramir said, "Let's find you something to drink."

"Oh, no, not wine," she protested, "you know how silly I get. Only one Dol Amroth child may be drunk tonight, and Elphir has already claimed that role."

"I will find you cider, then," said Faramir.

"No, no, I'm perfectly fine-," but he had already left her, and for a moment she stood, watching the haze of light and colors and thought it was very lovely but very distant.

She felt him before she saw him, caught her breath and held it a little, something like hope mingling with the chill.

"Cold?"

"A little."

He offered her his glass of wine; she took a sip, imagining her lips where his had been, felt his eyes on her face, lingering on her mouth. The wine was lighter than anything he would usually drink, but she had never liked the ale of the Mark. She could feel his warmth just inches from her bare skin and she was conscious of the scooping neckline of her gown, the hair she'd looped away to leave her neck bare.

"Thank-you."

Silence, and in that moment there were a hundred thoughts and a hundred indecisions that lay quietly and restlessly beneath polite veneers and the flash of colors and memories and humming, sensual awareness.

"My congratulations," she said.

He looked at her and his blue eyes were very puzzled. "On what?"

If her smile was forced, she did not think it showed. "Your betrothal. Father tells us everything, you see. You must not tell him anything you do not wish us to know."

"Ah," he said. "Well, I told him nothing. I rather think it was Aragorn who came up with that harebrained scheme. He seems to think I will destroy my kingdom without a wife, and a Gondorian one at that. Why he thinks that, I don't know."

"He is quite right," said Lothíriel.

He did not laugh. She had never liked that intensity of his; she could feel the heat curling over her cheeks, and suddenly the iciness she'd tried to so hard to find was slipping away, leaving her warm and trembling and hesitating.

Still smiling she added, "You needn't worry, I will be the soul of discretion."

"Do you do this often?" he said, abruptly. "Talk about nothing."

"And everything," she said. "You must not forget everything."

She could feel his frustration. "Sometimes I don't understand you."

"No," she conceded, "you don't."

"Did you ever love him?" he demanded and shocked, she drew away from him.

"Don't you understand," she said, "you can't do that, there are _rules_-,"

"Fuck rules," said Éomer, and he kissed her, and she thought he tasted of wine and truth and forgiveness, and if anyone was scandalized, well, she brought up a hand to brush lightly over his cheek and that was that.

They had waited for far too long, and on the terrace the wind was blowing over the gleaming white and black ripples of the sea.

[end]

* * *

><p>Started: 21 July 2011<p>

Finished: 25 February 2012

Posted: 25 February 2012

Please let me know what you think- like, no like, hate, etc. It's a new kind of story that I've never tried before and I would love feedback.


End file.
